John Grey is an Australian born poet, works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Bryant Poetry Review, Tribeca Poetry Review and the horror anthology, What Fears Becomewith work upcoming in Potomac Review, Hurricane Review and Osiris.
Trailer's silver in the moon,
pickup's rusty as November trees.
Her shoes sparkle on the narrow floor..
Feet slip in and out of them.
See, she says to no one in particular,
they still fit.
But which pair will she wear tonight?
Her neighbor's home. She can hear him coughing.
Tonight, she'll dance surely,
all the sequins flashing.
Do people still dance?
As long as she does, then people do.
What does her neighbor say?
He has bronchitis. Going on five years of it.
Maybe it's cancer. That's what Jack sounded like.
He was gone before he even asked her
for the next dance.
And she with, a dozen pairs of shoes to choose between.
And still living in their old trailer,
with his old pickup where he parked it last.
And her neighbor coughing half the night.
Still, it wouldn't hurt to dance a little.